


on setting suns

by aspiringpencilcase



Category: Claymore
Genre: F/F, Non-Graphic Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-21
Updated: 2015-04-21
Packaged: 2018-03-25 02:39:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3793606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aspiringpencilcase/pseuds/aspiringpencilcase
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>irene has superb yoki reading skills right? she must've felt Things during teresa's final battle w priscilla. i dont know whether that could actually happen but who cares. Who Cares</p>
            </blockquote>





	on setting suns

the sky is particularly bright today; irene finds her eyes aching as she raises her head to look at the sun. it doesn’t feel anything towards the suffering of mere mortals, she thinks. if it did, it would paint itself red and brown and dirty, just as blood mixed with dust and mud looks like.  
yoki is loud in the air. irene feels dark and bitter aura of priscilla and worried, sharp ones of her opponents, struggling to put an end to all this mess. she is restless. her place is here, watching, observing, yet there's nothing she wants more than to join them, to clash her claymore with the steel of priscilla's skin; to defeat the monster who stripped her of purpose, pride and an arm.  
(other things as well, but moping over it will serve her no good)  
clare’s aura is fading. others’ are still there, flickering, almost transprent in her mind. priscilla’s presence is overwhelming in contrast; irene finds it almost suffocating. she'd sacrifice everything for death for her, but, apparently, gods don’t favour them today.  
did they ever, she thinks, fiddling with the folds of her cloth without noticing it. irene is scared, the cold snake of fear curling deep in her gut, just like the time she watched teresa’s head rolling off her shoulders from the dirty, lifeless ground.  
she reaches to close the window without thinking, led by the urge to do something, anything, when her arm is pierced by sudden sharp pain. the feeling goes away in a moment, leaving her wincing.  
something blooms in the air.  
this yoki is familiar. painfully so, reminding her of cool nights and hot hands on her bare hips and lips curved in a faint smile near her collarbone.  
this can’t be; she’s mistaken; teresa is dead. she watched her fall, her head being held by clare, crying, afraid and lonely and afraid. yes, her yoki reading skills are spectacular, but everything gets rusty as time passes and  
teresa’s aura is cool, steady, an ocean against priscilla’s volcano.  
it’s her.  
irene bites her lip and stays still. the salt of her blood brings her to her senses, somewhat. she closes her eyes for her yoki sense to be sharper. she observes.  
priscilla’s aura is increasing in volume, irene sits down on the floor and covers her face with hands. she's ready to scream at the sheer intensity and bitterness of it, at the memories of inhaling dust, the frantic beating of her heart and praying, praying, please don't touch me, i'm dead, gods, please hear me, i'm dead, dead. her mother tought her old gods and ancient prayers, only priscilla knows of no such things. she's too strong to listen to anyting but herself, thinks irene.  
teresa is calm.  
irene is motionless, tense, as they dance around each other. priscilla’s yoki feels ragged, sharp, matching teresa’s in strength and agility yet ugly and raw compared to hers. irene grips her thigh so hard there’ll be bruises later.  
her arm is tingling for some reason when something happens to teresa’s yoki - it feels larger, warmer.  
it reaches towards irene, brief, bright moment, surrounding her completely and never, ever completely letting off. it fades in what feels like a second, but irene keeps it in her memory always, till her last breath, a small part of teresa accompanying her. the best and the worst is that this outburst is specifically for her, and when she analyses it later, equipped with clare’s explanation and knowledge, she supposes it was connected to her arm somehow and the expression of teresa's gratitude. _'it doesn't seem possible', frowns irene at clare's explanations. (aren't you mighty, teresa, she thinks, even here you managed to reach me. well, you're welcome. wherever you are.)_  
right now, though, the rational part of her is quiet, buried under the flow of memories and teresa’s presence.  
the battle is decided in a matter of minutes after that, priscilla’s yoki growing quieter and quieter. then, silenced forever with the cold flow of teresa’s aura, which stays here, intertwining with returned clare’s, calm and strong and sure and then  
teresa is gone for the second time in irene’s life.  
she doesn’t know what to think, to do; irene feels drained. priscilla is gone for good but so is teresa; something is telling her that she won’t be back this time.  
irene remembers teresa’s hands, pale and deadly and beautiful; her colourless eyes; her smile, almost always present, sometimes faint and sometimes not so.  
remembers the warm touch of teresa’s yoki on her skin, before her closed eyes. she’ll come to cherish this brief feeling; now she grips the fabric of her shirt and wishes for it to go away, to have never happened to her. she looks down on her shaking hands and intertwines her fingers; she doesn’t cry (hasn’t ever). her knuckles are white.  
the sky is red-orange-yellow from the setting sun.


End file.
